


gnosis

by Pixeled



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Centra non-binary HC if you squint, Cute, F/M, Ferryman, Ferrywoman, First Love, First Menstruation, Gen, Menstruation, One-sided Tserith?, River Styx (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Sacrifice, Sacrificial blood, tserith, womanhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29984844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixeled/pseuds/Pixeled
Summary: She accepts he is the shadow at her back, the elbow offered to ford the River of souls she was always meant to ferry. He is a ferryman himself of sorts—of living souls, and snaps the ties of breath so that it beats between ribs and spasms and gasps like the death rattle you won’t soon forget. He is the tail of a rattlesnake when it is still. He is the black panther that stalks in the jungle unseen.And she has never been afraid of him because he is kind to her.
Relationships: Aerith Gainsborough/Tseng
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	gnosis

“Aerith.” 

It’s uttered like a command, but it’s far from sharp, though it is stern. It’s simply to usher her back to the present. 

He can always sense when it happens—when her mind travels in flux, because he moves between the planes after her to chauffeur her to her destination. He’s alluded to doing the same for someone else and she knows who it is because he appears in flashes of light and disappears in darkness like the dance of a firefly and she knows it’s like that but it’s also different. Because, like him, she is all over the place all of the time and it’s so hard to know where she is and he is the only one who knows this besides her mother who is not quite gone in the sense humankind believes despite her never having told him.

Ilfalna, her mother, is there in ways Aerith has always known she could never utter, and she herself is there and here and for always in ways she’s never uttered out loud because she knows what the consequences of that are, knows that the walls have eyes and ears and she is never alone, but he knows despite her never having told him because he is special and she’s never had to voice anything because he just seemed to understand her from the very beginning. He understands her in ways no one ever has—not even Elmyra, and she no longer questions it. She accepts he is the shadow at her back, the elbow offered to ford the River of souls she was always meant to ferry. He is a ferryman himself of sorts—of living souls, and snaps the ties of breath so that it beats between ribs and spasms and gasps like the death rattle you won’t soon forget. He is the tail of a rattlesnake when it is still. He is the black panther that stalks in the jungle unseen. 

And she has never been afraid of him because he is kind to her. 

His voice is smooth and low and almost emotionless, but Aerith always picks up the different cadence he uses with her, the way he lets his accent slip on the “th” of her name so that it sounds like a long “s”, but only if you pay attention. You have to pay attention to know who he truly is. He might be the shadow at her back, he might usher her between her different captors, he might even be one her captors, but he also walks in chains. He has just learned over the years to silence the waterfall cascade of celestial bells his chains used to make. He is silent and dark and deadly and within him roils a monster so fierce it feasts on his heart and blood and he is less himself with the coming years, slowly replaced by the crackle of fire in a funeral pyre and the spread of cold during an Ice Age—the creak of leather as it’s pulled taut over skin. 

So when she comes crashing into the present because he brought her back and she is suddenly reminded of why her mind fled, she doesn’t know what to do. Her hands are trembling. She’s looking at them, fingers spread, and dark red-black blood is slicked there, staining her, coagulated and gelatinous. Her dress is hopelessly ruined. The toilet is a mess. She knows what it is. She knows what it means. She wants to hide, but she’s never been able to hide for long. He always finds her. She does it half-heartedly now, choosing spots she knows reminds him of her youth. Once, she was hiding in the Moogle slide and he just seemed to materialize, all black hair and caramel eyes, and smiled and said “just like a child” and she smiled back and they both laughed genuinely. She has always prided herself on pulling those smiles and laughs from him. Sometimes she even likes to make him frown, just to know he cares. Just to know he can still feel something. The years that pass weigh so heavily on him and she has to check from time to time, has to find out if he’s still the man she met whose eyes sparkled when he told her what she was. She knows he is a silent assassin, but he is also her friend. At least, she has come to see him that way. Maybe more. But she doesn’t think about that because she is so much younger than he is and their relationship is complicated enough. Isn’t it? 

But this. This is too much. 

“Are you bleeding, Aerith?” He sounds so concerned. He sounds so confused. He opens the stall door without her permission. Before she can say no. Before she can cry out. The cry is stuck in her throat and her fresh cut grass-green eyes are large are horrified. 

“Tseng!” she finally gets out. 

His eyes travel over her in that way she’s become accustomed to that means he’s assessing her for injuries. She’s told him before it’s like the scanner Hojo uses for the same thing, teasingly. She sees the understanding flash in his eyes finally and she’s both relieved and horrified that she doesn’t have to explain, but Tseng doesn’t bat a lash, doesn’t appear perturbed. 

“Ah. I see.” 

He simply ushers her out of the stall and over to the sink. 

He takes his suit jacket off, undoes the cuffs at his wrists, rolls his sleeves up and folds them carefully at his elbows, adjusts his suspenders and his hair, but leaves his gloves on.

She’s still shaking after he finishes cleaning her up. It registers belatedly that he had carefully tested and retested the water until it was a satisfactory temperature—and it had been. As usual, he just knows. He had been gentle, his touches thorough but not lingering. As usual, it was a job he had to do, and a job he wanted to do right. When he’s done it and he cleans and dries his gloves he looks at her, cups her face briefly, smiles a small careful smile, and then pulls his suit jacket around her waist over the stains that have ruined her pink dress and fastens the arms around her in a double knot. He’s never hugged her, but it’s close, and she feels warm, like the afternoon sun is on her cheeks.

Aerith is only half-aware of what he looks like beneath his jacket. Maybe she wants to remember. Maybe she doesn’t. She’s seventeen. This is the flower of womanhood she chose. He only leaves her to get a handful of tampons in various sizes which he hands her expressionlessly. He waits until she showers back at the lab and changes, and it’s been a while but he combs and braids her hair for her and smooths the covers on her bed over her, and when she starts to drift off, that’s when she hears his footsteps grow farther away. 

He didn’t have to say a thing. She knows he cares. Even when he can’t understand, he usually does anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m on Twitter as @pixeledxxx! Sometimes I’m funny, but I always have Hot Takes. I also draw things.


End file.
